


|| Promise You'll Remember That You're Mine ||

by Nervawkward, Nuggetasaurus, xxVoodoo



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama & Romance, Feels, M/M, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nervawkward/pseuds/Nervawkward, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuggetasaurus/pseuds/Nuggetasaurus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxVoodoo/pseuds/xxVoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love thought to be lost upon the frozen wastes, Bilbo struggles to cope with the fact his heart pains for what he thought had been love. Thorin's final words haunt his psyche and he falters with his recovery, trying to mend a broken heart. He returns to an empty home with an empty heart.</p><p>Unbeknownst to him, The King Under the Mountain has risen, escaping death. He too, suffers from a broken vessel, and abandons his birth rite to start his life over. </p><p>The eve is dark when the knock upon Bilbo's door, and he finds the dwarf upon his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When You Walked Out The Door, A Piece of Me Died ♦

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by xxVoodoo and Nuggetasaurus.
> 
> This was inspired from a roleplay prompt by kaciart on tumblr.
> 
> This is actually an ongoing roleplay between Nuggetasaurus and I, where I play as Thorin and she, as Bilbo Baggins, and various others.
> 
> Bare with us -- we have totally different writing styles!
> 
> Chapters will be posted as respected characters and responses. 
> 
> Feel free to leave us comments and questions. Or encourage us to keep going :D
> 
> (Thank you Nervawkward for the edits <3)
> 
> Enjoy the feels.

* * *

 

 **T** he heat stung the orbs that witnessed the grand beasts in the sky, flying overhead; the curled, matted locks swept with the whisping winds of the strong gusts they produced. Bodies flew, the land ravaged, and whatever breath that had been left in his lungs escaped. Knees grew weak, body was urging him to into the deep slumber -- Thorin gave in to the death he was escaping, collapsing into the crisp surface. The shock was taking over, mouth ajar and the slinking heat dripped silently down his cheek and tucked behind an ear, forcing the hair to stick to the soiled surface. He was giving in, the warmth leaving his body as the wound gurgled whatever venom it had left. He was cold, he was tired, he was fading…

 

“THORIN!”

 

How cruel, the demons, as they tempted him with a strong named carried with the voice of -- Bilbo… The hobbit leaned over, desperately clawing at the wound within his gut, pressing down upon it while whimpering his name over and over again. They quivered, his lips, tugging into a bittersweet smile; the dryness of his throat rumbled, forcing vermillion to purge forth from those cracked, cold lips. With what strength was left he reached for the gentle lover, strong hand cupping the cheek of the warm being, just wishing this hadn’t have to be, that he would just spring back… that Gandalf would appear and heal him as he had before. It wasn’t so, and even if Bilbo wasn’t accepting his fate, Thorin had to carry the cross for both of them and take hold of the last moments they had.

 

“No, no, no…” he yelped, tears flooding to pool in his hand, trying to push it away as he continued to press down upon his gut. “Thorin… t-the eagles. Look Thorin, they’ve come. We’ll get you help-”

 

“B-Bilbo… I’m glad you’re here. I wish to part with you in friendship… I take back my words.”

 

“Shh..shh.. Thorin.. You’re not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.”

 

“...and my deeds at the gates. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me.. I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry,” another rolled from his face, still gripping the side of his face with what strength he had left. “That I have lead you into such peril.”

 

“No, no.. I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin. Each and every one of them. It’s far more than any Baggins has deserved.”

 

“Farewell, Master Burglar…” even moments before his last, he remained poised and elegant, as he was the moment he stepped through the doorway in Bagend. “Go back to your books, your armchair...Plant your trees, watch them grow.” The protest written upon his face nearly stopped his heart right then and there, but Thorin’s brows arched, pulling the being closer to him as sorrow laced the ending of his breath. “I-if more of us valued home above gold, this world  would be…a….merrier….place. I lov--”

 

His voice had left him, brows arching as he examined his face, only mouthing the remainder of his sentence. Dulled, closing, and the last words heard were the shouting, the beating upon his breast, the screaming until the silence washed forth over him. His body relaxed and the last heave of his chest had given way. The hand slipped at last, falling to its master’s side as it surrendered, as he did upon the red colored snow with the tiny body heaving and wailing over his own.

 

**I loved you…**

 

 

♦


	2. When You Walked Out The Door, A Piece of Me Died ♦

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ **H** e looks peaceful,” Balin moved the matted, sticky locks from his face; the body lain across the ornate table, fur covering up to his shoulders. Spools of onyx and silver fell from the table, giving the frame a more elegant appearance than just dead and cold. “Have you brought the water and the needle and thread?”

 

“A-aye…” Ori quivered, eyes still stinging from the tears that took stare.

 

“Easy lad, he is at rest. Let us mend our king and drink to his glory,” reassurance tried to take his tone, but he was failing just as his younger kin, finding the grip upon his shoulder had been harder than he realized. “We dress him and prepare the funeral pyre, before Dain takes the throne to live on Durin’s folk’s legacy. Am I clear?”

 

He nodded, still choking on each and every breath, hitching as he sat beside the cold kind, head resting upon the arch of his arm. Each and every one of them had taken this in a different stride, but all they knew was the bottom of the barrel was where they all wished to be. Ori remained, nuzzling into the furs, and taking a heavy sigh.

 

“Watch yourself,” Balin removed the fur, looking at the clotted, gnarled wound -- grimacing at the smell and sight. Water placed within his hands and an old rag, he prepared the dwarven king for his physical departure, to join his soul within the heavens above, praying he would join the rest of their kin, to sing in triumph at the mountain’s return and the glory of the dragon falling from the skies. He slapped the rag upon the wound, careful to cleanse every ounce of flesh, ushering Ori to clean the face, but the lad hadn’t moved, just stared with large glistening eyes, pain lacing them; his grief struck a nerve, forcing the elder to wave him off. “If you’re going to stay put, then I ask you remain silent.”

 

“Have you…” the broad figure stood within the doorway, releasing a sad note, moving forth.

 

“Just began,” his own voice faltered, sniffling to hide the emotions Ori brought forth. “Dwalin,” eyes looked up at him, eager for some good company, and help. He may have been their elder, but what they were asking was too much. “Help me. Will you hold the wound while I sow it?” There was no questioning this task, he moved forth to gaze down upon the broken man and the king long for this world; a clenched jaw kept him in check, but he felt the air somber, and the soft sobs of the younger brought the atmosphere down.

 

The thickness of his digits pressed against the… maybe the room was too warm, but there was a hint of warmth enveloping the cold being. No. His mind stopped it from saying what he wanted to, but merely pushed it aside as the ivory haired being moved in, pressing the needle through flesh, mending the mutilated skin, tattered and torn. Eyes peered deep, examining as he shook his head. “He… died from blood loss?” Balin nodded, poking a few fingers into the hole to gather evidence and secure a proper answer.

 

“It seems to be. I can’t see any major damage, but it was a grave wound.” Teeth ripped the thread, questioning the warmth of the blood upon his hands and the way the wound oozed. Bristles of fur moved gentle below the nostrils, and there sat Ori -- if his eyes could have been wider, they would have popped from his skull, turning to look toward the two. The body reacted to the pain inflicted, causing the shallow breaths to rile a bit, exposing the truth.

 

“Th-Thorin..” bated breath, they witnessed the hairs continue to rustle to and fro, and if the tears could have screamed, they would have -- but they merely sat and gawked at the rise of a dead friend, playing them all for fools. Ori’s lip quivered, Balin felt his knees grow weak, and Dwalin stood, tears dancing at the brim of his lids, hanging to the lashes before a few silent ones fell. The furs covered his bare chest, and he was secured peacefully upon that table top. “Is he?” Ori finally mustered the courage, witnessing a nod from the strong dwarf.

 

“Fire… add more wood. Heat this room until we all sweat to death. Now.” The younger scrambled, falling before the fires, tossing more lumber into the pit, hearing the flames sing and take hold of the food offered. The rag slopped within the waters, clenched, abolishing the liquid that still clung; Dwalin worked with attentive precision, maneuvering to cleanse the war torn face; the blood flaked at first, but moistened and wiped from each fine line and the gashes upon his handsome face. “Hand me the thread,” he asked, and the shaking hands of Balin obliged, handing them quickly over. Dwalin threaded the needle, as if his life depended upon it, and worked to seal the remaining wounds upon his face. If he hadn’t seen the furrow of the brow line, the way the eyes squint behind closed lids, he wouldn’t have believed it to be so; he cut the end of the thread, running rough hands over his hairline to toss the strands from his face. “Aulë, strike me down with your mighty hammer…”

  
  
  


Death avoided, escaped, and the life bursting back into his chest hadn’t been what he anticipated; the dark slumber comforted, brought peace to his world, and enlightened his actions. The heat of the fire had grown too warm and the body stiffly fidgeted below the heap of furs atop his chest. The ribs expanded widely, in taking as much oxygen as they would allow him, huffing painfully as it exhaled; crystal hues glimmered with the warmth of the flames, like the day he were born, and born again he was upon this harrowing evening. Words, muffled, but the flashes of figures loomed around -- he couldn’t focus on the words, just knew from the bass of the tones, he hadn’t been alone.

 

“He’s awake! Hurry!”

 

All of his senses had been on fire, his head tensed and throbbed, until it finally all went - clear. Silent he was, taking in exactly what had been happening and where he had been. Fingers gripped below him; there had been no snow. There was no ice, no cold, just solid stone below his back. A breath stifled, hitching as a grunt of pain gurgled forth. Balin leaned forth, examining the cold eyes that gleamed back at him, reaching for the jug of water the other’s had brought, piling in through the narrow passageway. Dumbfounded hadn’t been the correct way to describe the scene, but it was enough to get the point. “Get him up,” he barked, comrades called to arms to lean him forth.

 

Lips parted unwillingly as the cool waters were forced into his gut, spewing the contents aside before he had accepted it, allowed it to fill his belly. He closed his eyes, breathing heavy with the pain rushing up his side, but he also felt the ache of his body. How could this be possible? Was this a cruel dream death had allowed him to partake in -- to be born again, just to wake up within the clouds, and accept that he truly was gone. No, the pain reminded him that he was alive, and by whatever mercy had graced him, he thanked silently. Weak, but still able, he pushed the jug away and grunted again, panting to try and keep up with all the actions of his men. They lifted his body from the cold table, settling it beside the flame, cushioning his head and lower back. So many questions, yet silence seemed to answer them all. He was meant for this world for a while longer. Yet, as he looked at the faces, something tugged at the heartstrings, not seeing… him.

 

The tiny creature that warmed his bed at night, whom brought a smile to his face during the crazed moments -- he was a constant, revolving around him like a sickness, like the dragon sickness that nearly took his mind, but this was a merciful healing that clutched either side of his strong jaw and kissed his forehead. Bilbo forced reason when there wasn’t one, and he shared the deepest desires with him on the quiet nights, even allowed his death to be shared, and yet… he wasn’t here. Part of him was ashamed of the swelling of his eyes, but with each rolling tear down his face, it was rejoicing; their souls would reunite, he was determined.

 

 

♦

 


	3. My Crown hath Broke ♦

* * *

“ **D** o not question me,” the words were soft, but getting stronger as the days passed. Still, his recovery was unmeasured and undetermined if he would survive again. Thorin knew it as such, that the legacy must be passed on, and to the only other kin that had been left -- Dain. “You will ascend to the throne and hold our blood line. I know not if I am meant for this world,, but let them carry on as if Thorin Oakenshield had died upon that mountain.”

 

“Yer crazy,” Dain spat back, glaring at the hunched body beside the flame. He hadn’t moved, or very little to allow himself to be cleansed or to sit upon the table and eat with those who chose his company. “Yer th’ rightful king. I can’t be takin’ that from yeh. Y’need to take it back.”

 

“No,” his head tilted, calmly rejecting his demand, taking a solemn huff. “I ask this of you, as blood. You will proceed with your coronation today and burn the pyre. This,” brows wrinkling his forehead, taking a second to gaze around at the halls he fought for, the halls that drove him mad. Such bitter reminders, it pained him greatly., “I don’t want this… I don’t want the gold, the glory. I don’t want our people going without a king and not to mourn the loss of the same twice over. I relinquish this to you.”

 

“An’ if yeh were’ta live? Then what?”

 

“That will be answered if the time comes,” he sighed, bringing a shaking hand up to his locks, brushing them aside. “The wound festers, Dain. I ask this of you, please… give me your word.” The hesitation was clearly visible, and he brought the mug to his lips and sucked on it tenderly, letting the ale wash his gut clean of the butterflies within it. Dain gave him a side glance, finally nodding as he set his cup down.

 

“Aye… I will carry out yer wishes…” His hand patted the thickness of his shoulder, moving away from the fire and leaving the man to his solitude. Thorin reached for the cup of ale, sipping gingerly; the burning as it hit his gut was welcomed, easing the rest down, earning himself a generous numbness that tingled along his face. The others around him still remained hushed, watching the painful movements of their leader, struggling for life. The fortnight hadn’t shown any signs of recovery, and Balin was left without words. They exulted over his miraculous awakening, but mourned the time they had left, if the words he spoke were true. The wounds did heal, but something had been lost, draining his existence, forcing the life from his body. Physical wounds would heal, but the heart remained cracked, and none was more painful than a broken heart.

 

“We’re going to join the others,” Gloin rested a hand upon his crown, moving the plate of food down within reach, “Anything else I can-”

 

“Go,” eyes looked up, trying to let the falsehood of the smile encourage them to leave his side. “Go be with your wife and child… and our kin. I will endure. You’ve left me plenty of ale to drown a horse.” The chuckle weakened, but it warmed their faces as each one touched the crown of their true king, leaving to watch as a false was anointed in his stead. Lacking the company allowed the mind to buzz and fluster with images and regrets that stuck within his gut, weighting it down with a thousand stones. The heart was failing him, that he knew, but it was the heart that urged him to go, to stand, to struggle and fall. The chair collapsed under a heavy weight, his legs refusing to hold him, but he’d be damned if they wouldn’t do it. Teeth mashed against each other, trying to silence the hiss of discomfort throbbing at his side. By the heavens, he was upright and standing on his own, but he held onto the table for dear life, clutching the fur over his naked chest, sludging barefeet across the floor to the bits of mail and fabric pulled from his body. Each breath was deeper, was with more meaning, and the sting that nearly crippled him was nothing now.

 

Damn this heart of his, but he was not complete, and he knew this was so. The only moment he truly felt whole was the moment the eagles set his frame upon the rock, when Gandalf healed broken pieces -- yet, as he told the halfling how much trouble he had been, how wrong Thorin had been, and embraced him, it was then he knew where his place had been. At the side of Bilbo, he could accomplish whatever he set out to achieve. And just the visions of their embrace, or the heat of his mouth against his, the way his flesh felt under his weight, Thorin just knew this place no longer was meant for him.

 

Staggering, he struggled as he lifted the mail, slipping it down onto the bare flesh, pulling on the robes to cover his bare body. As they celebrated outside, he would remain and gather what he needed. He was no longer the King under the Mountain, but a simple dwarf seeking out what he needed to heal himself. Eyes searched the room, finally reaching for the golden staff resting against the nook in the wall, coin slipping from base; he leaned firmly against it, using it to move his body as he made his way from the room he was condemned to, moving deeper into the mountain. His descent wasn’t easy, but he made it to the slipping coin. At one point in time, the sickness would have taken over him, but he grimaced and tried to keep strong as he scooped a hefty hand of coin, tossing some upon the step, using the staff to pry and poke, reaching for an empty sack to fill his bounty. He moved back up the steps, hobbling and pushing through the agony, until he got onto the landing. Memory guided him down the empty halls, listening to the cheering from the gully; his plan hazy, but he was reaching his goal, dipping into his old chambers and pausing. It would be the last time he’d gaze at this magnificence, examining the fine details of his heritage. He needed to move, quickly reminding himself of the tasks at hand. The heavy pouch collided against the furs across the bed, moving to retrieve a pack -- clothes, heirlooms, weapons piled in with haste. He tore the bloodied garb around his chest, tossing them upon the ground for a new, cleaner one. The fur cloak swung within the chambers, laying around his shoulders and clasping it at his neck, tucking the remnants under his arms to billow behind him.

 

The fleeting day only left him a small window to his escape. Eyes caught the gleam of the crown still within his hollow, knot forming within his throat. Thorin hesitated, afraid of the object, until he finally reached and touched it, holding it within his hands. Crown of Durin’s Folk, his crown, the crown of his true lineage. If Dain were to take hold of this mountain and guard it, he would have to forge his own, and not this; he tucked it within the linens, groaning as the sack collided with his spine, forcing his legs to move again with the help of the staff. Each step tested his faith until the air hit his face. Thorin stood before Erebor’s mouth, seeing the sun dance off the waters surrounding the entrance and the carved rock. Their voices seemed so loud, but as he peered from the entrance the bodies upon the hill brought a relief to his soul; he sighed, but chuckled that this plan of his would actually work.

 

The pony grunted, but he was firm with her reigns, packing her saddle with his satchel. He ascended upon her back, forcing the beast toward the ruined town, trying to avoid the eyes upon the hill as best he could.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The coldness of the night took him, stirring him from the building he claimed; he searched the empty town, finally finding where the Dragon Slayer had called home. The stirring downstairs riled his slumber, scrambling for the blade to his side. The steps sang with each movement; the dwarf sat in anticipation until the fire’s light had taken the face, causing the human to jump, sword drawn. His eye drew out to the pyre set aflame still upon the hilltop, face twisting as he questioned everything.

 

“Y-you’re dead,” Bard was firm, blade glistening with the moon’s first light that seeped through the window. Thorin nodded, taking a gulp, laying his own weapon down upon the wooden planks.

 

“That I am, and that I will remain.”

 

“How…?”

 

The dwarf shrugged, for it was a mystery to himself.

 

“They set the pyre… They mourn you, and here you hide from them all like a coward-”

 

“A coward I am not,” he interjected, reaching for the window sill, bracing himself as he stood. The slayer paused, reaching out to aid the dwarf to his feet. From the window they bore witness to his death, watching as his people and those honoring him mourned his mortal soul. It was unnerving, but they looked on; Thorin took a step away, letting his stare meet the human’s. “This life is not meant for me. If I remain, I fear…”

 

“Fear you’ll go mad? Lose grip on reality once more?” Had the sentence not be true, Bard wouldn’t have witnessed the twinge of his features, pained at the thought of it. A hand ran through graying strands, arm upright as it braced his forehead, leaning his body forward into the wall. “Why are you here?” he asked, lids hiding the annoyance and confusion that sullied them. Those hues fluttered open at the sound of the coin sack hitting the sill, as well as the key that allowed the dwarves into the mountain. He questioned, narrowing his stare, but before he could protest, Bard had been caught off guard by what came next.

 

“I am holding my end of the bargain and my word. The key is to allow your people to rebuild -- take the gold, the riches, and restore your own lands. The gold,” he chewed the corner of his mouth, gaze falling, and emitting a breath, “is for the arkenstone. It does not belong in this mountain, in this land. If the dwarves are to take hold of Erebor once again, it needs to be destroyed. I can’t bare the thought of another going mad because of it.”

 

“And how am I suppose to trust you’ll do as such?”

 

“I wish to atone for my sins and allow this to be my start.”

 

The passage of time in between his words and the actions of the human had felt as if he were going to implode from the anticipation; Bard remained upon the wall, brows in deep thought while he tried to figure out his next move. Thorin nearly fell over, lips parting when he finally moved from his place and toward the hanging garbs. Bard reached within the coat, pulling the stone from its place, meeting the dwarf again by the window. Could Thorin blame his hesitation? Could he deny him the right to fulfill this meaningless quest of self atonement? To his surprise, it had been extended in his direction and slowly, he allowed his fingers to run over the smooth, glistening surface while his heart stopped. This thing ruled him, caused his madness, his fall from grace, and here it had been the key to his salvation. Bard merely nodded, stepping back, extending his arm to usher him from his place.

 

“Before I change my mind,” he stated, head lowering to avoid anymore more contact. Thorin tucked the stone within his tunic, picking his cloak and walking stick from the ground, and mushing forth. “Just,” the human whispered, ceasing the movement in the dwarf that halted to listen, “Keep to your bargain this time.”

 

They stung, but as fingers gripped upon the staff.

 

“I promise.” 

 

♦


	4. Hit the Bottom♦

* * *

 

 

“ **P** lace the bodies upon the top,” Balin danced around the pyre, ensuring the straw stuffed body within Thorin’s armor had gone unseen by the outsiders. This endeavor they were asked to carry out was tugging at his conscious -- to fool them all, to offer them peace through a lie, how could he do this? Still, he had been the one in Thorin’s chambers, taking his clothes, his armor, and almost the crown. It seemed wrong to sacrifice it to the flame if it were only to be worn by his cousin by the end of this day. If Thorin were to survive this, how would they answer for these wrongdoings? The dwarven heritage would be sullied and henceforth making the Mountain a fortress of lies. Was Thorin right, however? The wound smelled of infection, inflamed; he feared they would truly bury the rightful king if he didn’t get it under control.

 

The elder hobbled, eyes falling upon the fallen brothers; Kili and Fili… he wished that death was just as merciful as it was upon Thorin, just praying that they would arise as he did. As he knelt, touching their faces, he knew it was unlikely as they were as cold as the ice and eyes dulled, staring blankly back toward him. They were forced closed by a gentle touch, reaching toward the passing Bombur, whom helped him rise. “Make sure we get them up beside him,” he pleaded, not wishing to see their helpless faces anymore than he had to. There was no question as the others lifted them, guiding them higher toward the heavens and nestling beside the fake body they created. When it was all said and done, they stood with anguish dancing upon their features.

 

“Ready yerselves,” the kinsmen told them, as the rest of the Ironfoot clan marched upon the hill. Those not of dwarven descent, followed behind until they had all swarmed around the pyre. Dain patted the elder’s shoulders, offering his consolation for the events to come. “Let’s get this cor’nation over with, eh? ‘ave one of yer men retrieve the crown. We’ll ‘ave a king light a king’s pyre.”

 

Balin nodded, beckoning Ori to his side. “Retrieve the crown from Thorin’s chambers. Let’s have at this,” he sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose.

 

Ori took fast steps down the hill, half stumbling or sliding as he hurried. He allowed this task to take over the grief he had for his fallen brothers and accepted that his king was to be replaced. There could have been far worse situations to arise than this, but they would survive this trial by fire. Ori tripped upon the settlement of the fallen wall, only catching his balance with a few skips, making his way into the belly of the beast. Through the halls he scurried, stopping every few minutes to gasp for air. They knew he was not built for stamina or war, that he was a dainty simpleton to do simple tasks. The heart raced, throbbing at the bottom of his neck, forcing his saliva to task like copper. He huffed, but gathered himself enough to find an even pace, making it to his master’s chambers.

 

Mouth ajar, he bore witness to the storm that rolled forth in this quiet room; drawers left ajar, objects tossed about and upon the floor, furs upon the bed astrew. Ori took a few steps forward, praying for some guidance as he too, followed in the footsteps of the intruder and searched for the crown he was asked to bring back. He found himself panicked, throwing what he could in a measly attempt to find it -- but it had been long gone. _Think, think_ , he cursed to himself. For a simple lad, the idea popped within his head as he raced from the room and plunged himself down into the treasures that were ten staircases down.

 

The coin rolled undertow, fingers gripping at the treasures as he looked for anything he could use. Each throw of coin and gems left him more frantic that the second before; he wasn’t going to find anything, he was going to go back empty handed. “AH HA!” he shouted, though the echo of himself nearly made him jump out of his skin. The youngest scrambled upon bent knees, crawling to the gemmed crown, not of his people, but it would work -- hopefully. Ori couldn’t have been faster escaping the pits and removing himself from the fortress that seemed so, empty. He was relieved as he was birthed back onto the surface and dancing the the sun’s warm light. All luster had been lost upon his climb back, appendages numb from his hastey mission of utter failure. Reaching his comrades, his hands shook as he raised the golden crown, watching reactions twist. “I-it’s gone,” his voice shook, grimacing as he awaited reprimand.

 

“Gone?!” Balin took his wrists, holding up the mockery that he had brought, pushing his hands down. Hands clenched the back of his skull, tugging at snow kissed strands. “What did you find? How do you know it is gone? Did some--” His jaw unhinged, brows arching. “Thorin…”

 

“H-his chambers w-w-were left a mess. Like a r-robber had taken everyth-thing.”

 

“Wha’s this?” Dain’s large frame slipped between them. The sight of the pathetic piece of jewelry he held soured his mouth, immediately ready to retatilate against the lad. “Where th’ blood ‘ell is the damn crown? How em I supposta god through with this?”

 

“We suspect Thorin,” Balin’s features dropped, “Has taken the crown.”

Frustration took hold, gripping the collar, pulling Ori closer to him. “He’s injured. Send yer men, find him, an’ bring ‘em back. We’ll hold off this ceremony until we find ‘im, ya?” A shove was given, releasing Ori from his grip and sighing. “Give me the damn torch,” despite his best efforts to bottle the anger, he ripped the flame from the other’s grip.

 

“We are ‘ere to offer peace ta’ th’ king lost, ta’ the men that fell. We, those who stand, ar’ the remnants of this war. To th’ humans that killed th’ dragon, to th’ elves that lended their aid, to th’ eagles that demolished th’ northern army, to our kin… fer reclaimin’ what was once ours. I stand b’fore yeh all -- as yer new King under th’ mountain… I promise ta’ give what was owed, what was promised, what is needed ta’ rebuild what was lost. I, Dain Ironfoot, promise ta’ forge alliances We ar’ broken, we ar’ battered, but we still hold breath. Ta’ Thorin Oakenshield, The King under th’ mountain… May the ancestor welcome ya’ and yer kin with open arms. May ya’ find peace.” The torch licked the base of the pyre -- flames crept and took hold. Battle cries of the last of rallied folk, of different creed and origins, all calling out. If they knew, Balin wondered, toying with his lower lip.

 

“Find ‘im,” he reminded them. Dain retreated from the small company, joining in song and merriment under the growing flames. They drank to a false death of their king, but the company would drink to the brothers they had lost. Balin looked to his folk, sighing.

 

“Pray we find him alive and not his corpse. Let us drink to Fili and Kili, and we leave at dawn’s break.”

 

 ♦


	5. But You're Pulling Me Down ♦

* * *

 

 **N** othing. Absolutely nothing. Since the days following the death of Thorin Oakenshield, a certain halfling had felt nothing. At first, when it had happened, there had only been overwhelming, crippling agony. A heart broken with no hope of ever being mended again. During those dark days after the King’s fall, Bilbo Baggins had considered several things. The first of which being joining the man he had come to care so deeply for in his eternal slumber. While the idea was tempting, he had quickly discarded that course of action. No doubt the dwarf would have killed him again in whatever afterlife there was, if there even was one. The second thing considered had been whether or not to stay for the funeral. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It had killed him to hold the man within his arms, to see the life leave those cerulean hues that he had grown to love. He could not endure that again, could not stand next to a burning pyre and watch the man he loved burn.

 

There had never been any words between them, had never been any confession of what he knew they both felt. He regretted it now, more than anything in his life. Not telling Thorin, not solidifying what the man already knew… He wished desperately that he had. The final thought he had considered was whether or not to return to Bagend. He could have easily started walking in any direction and never stopped. He would have gladly wandered the world until exhaustion took him or death found him. Bard, the kind man, had offered him a place with his family, had promised he was always welcome within his home. In the end, home was the only place he knew he could heal. His heart ached for the man he would never lay eyes upon again, though as the days passed, he slowly grew numb until he could feel nothing at all.

 

The journey home had took less time than he remembered. Perhaps it was the company of the Wizard that helped quicken the passage of time, or maybe he just no longer cared to pay any attention to the passing days. Whatever it was, relief and a small sense of peace was what he felt once he was within his home and had reacquired the majority of his possessions once again. He never did manage to get those silver spoons back… Unlike in the days before The Company, the halfling no longer cared much for the items within his home. The sense of calm he felt once they were returned to him had to do more with the familiarity of the items than anything else. Very little within the house reminded him of the man he couldn’t think of, not so soon after he had been stolen away from him. Perhaps, with time, he would be able to recall the memories of Thorin with something other than a hollow aching within his chest, but for now, he would block out any thought of the man. He could not let himself allow that in, could not allow himself to accept the dwarf’s death.

 

That was, until he stumbled across something he had forgotten about. Tucked away in a pocket of his least favorite vest sat a single acorn. It was that single item, a tiny, seemingly insignificant thing that opened the floodgates.  For the first few weeks after he rediscovered his acorn, he did not leave Bagend, did not leave his bed. He ate nothing and only drank enough water to keep him alive. It was during this time that he finally allowed himself to grieve. He spent long hours curled beneath linens and sheets, staring blankly at the white fabric surrounding him. Tears would well within his navy hues and spill over unchecked, would fall until his eyes burned and sobs shook his body with a ferocity that frightened him. Never before had such a deep sadness overwhelmed him, consumed him until there was nothing else.

 

During his more lucid periods, his gaze would turn to the ceiling and he would consider rising from bed, washing up, and going outside. Of course, that did not happen for several long days. He still wasn’t quite ready to join the living, functioning people of The Shire. They lived in blissful ignorance, had no idea what had happened outside the borders of their little paradise. But he knew and he wished he didn’t. So, he continued his solitude, continued his isolation until he could find the courage to keep going.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Deadly hums vibrated through the air, the sounds of battle drowning out all other noises. The halfling frantically searched his surroundings, desperate to gaze upon those familiar black locks that were beginning to turn grey. No where. No where. No where! The damned dwarf was no where to be found! Panic settled within Bilbo’s gut as he began to run, eyes constantly sweeping the bodies he passed for any sign of Thorin._

_He ran faster, becoming frantic in his searching. A dread settled uneasily within his gut, telling him that something was so very wrong. Not now. Not like this. The halfling silently pleaded for the life of the dwarf, praying to whatever higher power there might be that the King Under the Mountain was alive and well._

_Suddenly, everything changed. The man stood atop a frozen waterfall, the place familiar, yet he was unable to determine why. He had never been to this place, had never seen such a sight before. So why did it feel as if he had? A deep voice calling his name caused him to freeze, body tensing. Slowly turning around, the man before him was a bloody mess. “Thorin!” The man exclaimed, running forward and catching the other just as his legs gave out. The pair collapsed to the ground, Bilbo cradling the larger man within his lap. “H-hey, it’s going to be okay Thorin.” His voice shook as trembling fingers ran through those long, thick locks. A weak laugh escaped the man within his grasp, his bloodied lips sporting a smile. “Always the optimist.” The chuckle that escaped the dwarf devolved into a violent cough, his hand coming away from his lips covered in blood. “No, no. you aren’t allowed to leave me. Not now. Not when we…” His words trailed off, a sob escaping him as his forehead dropped to rest against the others._

_Silence passed between them, their breath mixing as they dwelled within their last moments together. This was it. This was the end. Bilbo would never see him again, would never feel his hands upon his hips in the pale moonlight, would never steal kisses in the cover of darkness when the remainder of the company slept. This was where his world ended and his hell began. “Bilbo… I lov--” His words were cut off as he was suddenly yanked from Bilbo’s grasp. Dark laughter spilled from the lips of the pale orc that loomed over them, murderous hues never leaving the hobbit as he ran his sword though the dwarf’s heart, a shout of agony falling from his bloodied lips._

 

“No!” Bilbo shouted, his body snapping into an upright, sitting position as his hands frantically grasped for the sheets tangled around his body. His chest heaved violently as he tried to discern where he was, where Thorin was. Slowly, his memories returned to his battered mind and a sob fell from his chest. Collapsing back onto his bed, he curled in on himself, clutching the blankets around him tighter. Cold, pale moonlight streamed through his bedroom window, casting shadows across the walls. Bloodshot navy hues glanced to his doorway, his breath catching in his throat at the figure standing within the curved arches. “T-Thorin?” He asked, hope flooding his heart. Quickly stumbling from the bed, frigid air struck his bare, sweat drenched torso, his lounge pants hanging low on his hips as he stepped forward. Pain stabbed at his heart as he realized what he thought had been Thorin was nothing more than a trick of the shadows, deceiving him yet again.

 

For months he had been plagued by nightmares of the man he loved, his mind seeing the dwarf in everything he did. Often after the nightmares, he would think he was awake and Thorin would be there. He would comfort him, whisper words filled with love and adoration. Would wrap him within those strong, solid arms and rock him back to sleep. He’d awake in the morning, alone and heartbroken all over again. It was a cruel, painful process that he desperately wished to end. It had come to the point where he no longer slept unless his body gave out from exhaustion. Returning to his bed, the hobbit collapsed on top of the linens, staring blankly at the wall until he faded back into sleep.

 

♦

 


	6. Leave the Light On ♦

* * *

 

 

 **T** he ale hit his belly, flooding all rhyme or reason from his head, easing the rolling storm of his gut. Fingers danced along the brim of the ornate mug as he tried to settle the mind that continued to race. He was less than a few hours from the Shire, but why couldn’t he just bring himself to do it? Days he had been within Bree, filling himself with as much ale as he could within the short time he was here; nerves were getting the best of the mighty Oakenshield. Rattled to his core, he was trying to find the right words to undo all the wrong, to set things right, to make amends -- how he just longed to take that small face within his hands and just express all his love with a few simple notions. The gold coin upon the bartop had made another decision for him, filling the mug back to the brim, and suckling upon the divine liquid. Perhaps Bard was correct, he was a coward. Here he hid, laying low from the one thing that could fix his soul, mend it and make it right. He stared hard at the floating froth, mustering the strength to swallow its entire contents, tossing the rest of his tab upon the counter, and finding his way out the front door.

 

The ease of throwing his gear upon the pony was triumphant, as the wounds that nearly took his life had healed. The stroke of her neck and rustle of mane assured her that the journey wasn’t over, yet it would be soon. The whinney squeaked as he mounted the brilliant chestnut beast, forcing her head back to the road, prodding her sides to move with haste. If it weren’t for the liquid courage bubbling within him, he would have sat for another, then another, and then another until he would slink up into empty room he rented and pass out upon the rug. Now, it was different. There were stares this time around when he exited, pack in hand instead of lugging it up the steps. The questions of where he was going and why he was there were behind him, and the answers they sought was west on the road. He was beckoned home and there he was, dust roaring behind him as she moved with the beat of her master’s heart, wild and anxious.

 

The sun had been midday upon his departure, but it was fading with the winding road. Time allowed words to be thought out, to make them right; he couldn’t count how many times he had actually said them aloud to ensure they sounded correct. As the road lead them uphill, his breath hitched, knot forming at the base of his throat. No matter how many times he swallowed, trying to make it go away, it was still there -- reminding him that his long journey was now to an end. Months upon the roads here, battling the snow, the heat, marauders, and enemies alike. He was tired and the mere thought of home, it was overwhelming. The rolling hills welcomed them. The magnitude in his chest lead him down the familiar path, slipping from her back, and leading her down the dirt road to his salvation. It grew louder, the thumping of his heart, as it rang in his ears. Each step forward increased the speed of it until all sound and sight seemed to blur.

 

The bodies tending to their homes in the dying light hadn’t been noticed, nor the onlookers as they watched the foreigner head to the corner of Hobbiton where Bagend had been nestled in the greenery. At the base of the hill, he wanted to collapse, run back to the Prancing Pony and hide for days. He was no longer the strong leader, but he was just a mere dwarf. No titles, no claims, no riches -- just Thorin the dwarf. He fumbled as he tried tying her reigns a million times to the fence, cursing under his breath each time she bucked her head and freed herself. The frustration and anxiety was crippling him, taking it out on the beast as he jerked her head still, finding the patience to finally secure her for the time being. The satchel had been plucked, relieving her of the weight and duty of carrying it for him. The exalted march had begun, climbing the steps of the hobbit’s homestead, ceasing to move as he reached the door.

 

Thorin contemplated running, contemplated leaving -- but he stood firm. He must have been outside the door for nearly an hour, trying to find the courage to raise his arm to pound upon the door. Icy hues closed as he took a deep inhale, finally letting his fist pound on the hard oak. Nothing. He waited for a few uneasy minutes before trying again. It was harder, more firm, with determination. The door creaked and heaven sang as he gazed upon his face.

 

All of the emotions, all of the preparation for this moment, the drive that lead him here. He watched as his face collapsed with shock and astonishment, followed by the same burden Thorin had carried all this way. To the Makers, the Gods, whatever reigned over them, he felt his chest heave and quiver, brows arching as he examined the halfling’s appearance. How it took everything within him not to reach forth and force himself upon him, kissing those lips just to feel alive again. Every moment of their affair, roll of breath, secret kiss, and even the darkened times, Thorin was thankful for all of them. He took a step forward, hand dancing along the back of his neck, drawing a quivered breath as his words finally escaped him.

  
“I understand dinner was at four,” his voice wavered, emotions erupting to the surface, “But it seems I’ve gotten lost. M-may,” the twitch of the corner of his mouth happened at the precise moment his eyes grew warm, liquid pooling upon his lower lid, “May I come in, Master Burglar?”

 

♦


	7. Down In A Hole♦

* * *

 

 **T** he months passed in a vicious cycle of nightmares and waking images of the deceased King. He tried to get back into his routine and for the most part he did. Every morning he woke, dressed, and went out to his garden in an attempt to heal the plants that had died off without his constant care. Tucked away, in a section of the garden specifically cleared for one purpose, a tiny sapling grew. Bilbo hoped it would become strong and tall, would shelter his home from the rains and winds that would come with the changing of the seasons. He hoped that like with his own memories, one day he would be able to look upon the tree and remember his adventure with nothing but fondness. However, those days were a long time away, something that he would hopefully reach within his lifetime.

 

After his morning gardening, he would return to his home and make himself a small lunch. He no longer ate the same amount of meals as his fellow hobbits. Months of nothing but eating on the road had altered his eating habits and he could not seem to break them. In all honest, he didn’t really want to. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and evening tea were enough for him. He found that the tea sometimes helped soothe his mind at night, made the nightmares less intense. Of course, they were still crippling, but it helped on some small degree. After his lunch, he would do one of three activities. At the beginning of the week he would take stock of what food and items he had run low on and would go to the market to pick those items up. If it was the middle of the week, he would settle down within his study and drown himself in a book, though he often finished without remembering a single detail of the events within. Finally, if it was the end of the week, he would pull out his walking stick and travel all the way to the edge of the Shire and simply stand there, staring out at the world ahead. He often contemplated leaving. There was nothing for him here, or anywhere for that matter. He found that he missed the mountains, missed the thrill of discovering a new place. Of course, he never seemed to be able to bring himself to take that step forward. Something was keeping him there, refusing to let him leave… He didn’t know what exactly it was, but he didn’t fight it. As the sun began to set, he would turn around and head back to Bagend.

 

On that particular day, he went to the market. With his list tucked securely within his pocket, he calmly made his way down the soft, rolling hills. In only a short matter of time, he could hear the sounds of idle chatter and laughter, sounds that helped soothe his aching soul. After a while, he had realized that he couldn’t lock himself away, couldn’t cut himself off from people. He was slowly healing and being around his neighbors for short periods seemed to be helping. Upon arriving at the market, he extracted the list from his pocket and carefully unfolded it, reading over already memorized items. Slipping it back into it’s proper place, he moved to the first stall and slowly made his way around from there. A solid two hours later, he had everything named on his list and had took the time to chat with a few people he used to be close with. Several of them had expressed their concerns for him, saying he looked tired and exhausted all the time. He had laughed and waved them off, had acted as if nothing was wrong when in reality, everything was. He still had nightmares, still saw Thorin during his waking hours. It was taking its toll on him and his lack of sleep was beginning to show.

 

Upon returning home, he put his newly acquired items within their proper places and began the process of cooking his dinner. By four, he was at the table within his kitchen, silently and meticulously eating the simple meal he had prepared. It was odd to him how food no longer tasted like anything to him. It was as if everything had suddenly become dull and muted. Nothing that had previously mattered to him meant anything anymore. With an exasperated sigh, he stood to his feet and proceeded to clean up his mess, dumping his uneaten food.

 

Sometime later the man was curled up in his favorite chair within his den, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a book in his hand. For the first time in months, he was actually absorbing what he was reading. It was a tale of adventure and danger, with a dashing hero and his sidekick. He didn’t know why, but it caught his attention in a way books had failed to recently. It was for this reason that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a knock came at his front door. He paused, listening intently for any sounds. Maybe he had just imagined it. No one visited him, not since he had been particularly nasty to a neighbor who had tried to comfort him during one of the first weeks he had returned home, when he had been at his worst. When the knock sounded again, he stood to his feet, leaving the blanket in his chair, and made his way to the front door.

 

Gripping the handle, he tugged the round door open and froze at what he saw before him. Thorin, in all his glory, more realistic than he had ever been before. The shock was evident on the hobbit’s exhausted features.

 

Slowly, the shock faded and a soft sigh escaped the broken man, his shoulders sagging in defeat. His forehead fell forward, thunking softly against the green door. “Will this nightmare never end?” He whispered gently. The Thorin that stood before him was clear and prominent, more so than he had been in previous episodes. No doubt he had dozed off during his reading session. In a few short minutes he would snap awake and he would be alone again. “Every night and every day. Will you not give me one night of peace? Just one night without your face haunting my every thought. That is all I ask…” Raising his head, he stepped back, holding the door open a bit wider, allowing him in. “Knocking on the door is a refreshing change. I was beginning to think lurking in the shadows was the only way you knew how to show up.” He murmured, sounding tired and drained. “Well come in, don’t just stand there. You’re letting all of the heat out.” He added after a moment, turning away and returning to his spot within the den, curling back up on his chair. The faster this played out, the faster he would be able to possibly get some sleep.

 

The hobbit did not realize that Thorin was truly there, alive and well. His mind had played too many tricks on him, had deceived him too many times. It would take some serious actions to convince him that what he was seeing was not a hallucination brought on by his broken heart. He had been let down too many times to let himself believe that the other could possibly be alive. Bilbo had held him within his arms, had watched the life leave his body. Thorin was dead, burned on a pyre like the dwarven kings of old, given the funeral he deserved. To believe that he was before him would only lead to more heartache that he could no longer bare.

 

♦


	8. In the End, I'll Do It All Again ♦

* * *

 

 

 **B** e still -- the heart ceased to beat for an interlude of time; if he could have fallen upon bended knee, pulled the haggling close, just feel his warmth again, he would have. Thorin's tongue held as the dreams he had, all came crashing down upon this wretched earth. No. No,no,no... This wasn't how this was suppose to go, not the way he planned. The stare, cold and blank, looked back at him; he still was of sound body, but mind? Thorin just felt his guts wrench together and the sickness dancing in his throat. "B-bilbo..." voice shaking, taking a step toward him. This -- what was happening to his hobbit? What has this done to him...

 

He refused to let his feet move, belly screaming as the fires took hold. He was suppose to shed a tear, hold his face in his hands, kiss those soft lips until the end of time. No, the hobbit retreated, back into his hole. Thorin hadn't known if he were still intoxicated, dead, or this was another nightmare, but he knew this couldn't be the way they reunited. His voice cracked, calling his name again into the dark. Still, he hadn't returned to him, and the more he stayed before the threshold, the more his heart ached. His head reared, letting a frustrated breath from his body, trying to ease his demeanor, but it wasn't happening -- he wanted him, and he was oceans away from him.

 

The fist laid waste to the side of the house. "Bilbo!" The tone wasn't dangerous, it was longing, angry, needing an answer to this disarray. He had come all this way, and for what? His lover lost below the surface of grief, torn mad by the events that had happened atop that waterfall on that miserable, cold day. Head hung, covered in a curtain of ebony, his chest rose and fell, trying to stop the sting of his crystal blues, get the strength he needed to stop his saddened mind, show that he was real.

 

"If this is a dream, let me wake," he whispered, grabbing the pack and tossing it beside the doorway. His shoulders slumped, closing the hobbit hole up, letting the darkness swarm him. He took his time, resting against the door trying to gather his thoughts and let his head wrap around what was going on. Cruel, cruel reality -- further beating him down into the ground. He expected Bilbo to launch within his arms, spin him within his garden, make love by the fire; this hadn't been in. He spoke of the times he had seen him and his courtesy to knock  -- had he been swinging images of him? Flashes of the past? A spell taking over him? Boots thudded as his March continued, dirt of his journey tracking across the rug; he stood in the doorway. "Bilbo..." He was pained, expressing it, watching the way the fire hit his features, the paper crisping as he turned the next page. The knot was back in his throat and slowly his feet drug him to the man, falling upon his knees as he knelt before the armchair. Rough hands resting on the bare portions of his legs, gripping them tightly. He felt him, he was real, and he needed to look deep within those eyes to assure that he was truly alive, real, tangible.. "I've come back, for you," he whispered, thumb running along his skin. "What have I've done to you?"

 

This was no nightmare, but the reality they shared -- together. How could he prove he wasn’t the monster that plagued his dreams, but the man to hold him tight when the dreams turned sour? The reaction he desired still didn’t blossom to the surface, forcing his hands below the blankets, gripping hold where his shirt hadn’t met the hem of his pants. Gods, his flesh below his grip, sweet memories rushing through his vision; the blanket he hid under was tossed from him, hands moving softly upon the nape of his neck, cradling his sweet face. Every line screamed exhaustion; he was weary, ignorant to the dwarf that came to sweep him off his feet, to make things right. Thorin rose upon his knees, just barely making it to eye level, pulling his features closer to his. “I’m no nightmare,” he tried to reassure, searching darken pools for an accurate response. He was there, heart craved from his chest, urging for him to take the bloody mess as his own -- another treasure. Nothing was coming close to the way he needed him, wishing he would just feel the way his hands drug across his skin, the way his voice rolled from his tongue.

 

He plucked his hand away from the book in his lap, tossing it aside upon the ground to gain his full attention. Thorin struggled to remove the heavy coat, casting that aside as well, exposing the simple linen cloth that draped his chest; he pulled it loose, taking his hand once more, guiding it to the gut. The scar gnarled, still fresh from healing. Hell, it nearly killed him along the road here, but still, he survived yet again and made it back. He urged him, pleaded with him to press the skin, feel the silken flesh that had bubbled and rose above the rest of his tanned flesh. “See?” voice hushed, “I live…”

 

The nights he dreamed of his small body pressing down upon the wound, some how able to hold him off long enough to have him survive and remain with him, he wished it had all been so true. They would have spent the long days together, fortifying the union they sought out of loneliness, but above all, over the journey they had set upon. How could he not yearn to reach for the sheets, gripping for his companion, but finding his bed cold and empty. To have him again in his grip -- he wished for the heavens to open up, flood, and drown them all to express the joy that sang within him. It was high time he finally prove his worth to this being, thumb running and pressing the palm of his hand and the other over his tired appearance. Thorin clasped either side of his face once more, repeating ‘I live’ to him once more.

 

Forces collided and no long would he hold off, no longer would he suppress this undying urge to be near him. Lips joined with a fire, but more so, a bittersweet longing that torn the earth apart. Thorin needed him -- needed to show him that this was absolute. Never did his heart beat to this wild rhythm, the way it sang for the halfling. Each roll of his tongue, each shift of his thick brow, each little whisper in between breaths of exclaiming he wasn’t a mirage, he was here. Thorin tore at Bilbo’s hips, wrapping his might around him as he pulled him from the chair and nestled upon his lap. Through his chestnut locks, his fingers played, keeping him pinned against him, pulling his weight down into his hip; Thorin’s fire was strong, fierce, thirsty for his love and his love to be returned. Never had he uttered those words until the day his soul almost departed, but the words would leave him now as he nestled into the crook of his neck, small kisses placed. “I loved you,” he told him, pulling back to examine his eyes, pawing away the hairs that fell into Bilbo’s face. “I wanted to leave you knowing how true those words had been, but I’ve come back to tell you just how true they are.”

 

Pleading, his voice had been this time; love lacing his expression, turning as he exposed his vulnerability. No longer was he a stonewalled king, a mighty warrior -- he just wanted to be simple, simple like the man staring down at him. Calloused hands rolled over the exposed hips, clenching with all of his might, trying to shake and pinch him enough to wake him.

 

_“I loved you.”_

 

 ♦


	9. Say You Remember ♦

* * *

 

 **N** estled within the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the hobbit returned his focus to the book within his grasp. Perhaps if he didn’t acknowledge the man, he would go away and he would be granted one night of peace. It had been months since the man’s death and Bilbo was beginning to feel as if he needed to move on with his life. He didn’t want to, not even remotely, but he knew that he could not dwell in his grief forever. No matter how much he wanted to. The man wasn’t coming back. It was a reality that he needed to accept and his mind was not allowing him to. Perhaps he needed a stronger tea… He decided that the next time he went to the market, he would ask around for a brew that helped with sleep. He remembered someone mentioning such a thing before he had left for his adventure.

 

Most nights he wondered how his life might have turned out if he had never met Thorin Oakenshield. He would have never left the Shire and would have never had his heart broken and tainted by grief. Despite the way things had ended, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Those few months spent within the company of the dwarf king, even during the time when the dragon sickness plagued the man’s mind, were cherished and held a special place within his heart. He could have easily spent the remainder of his days in ignorance of the outside world, safe and warm within his hobbit hole. He had decided not to, had gone out on a limb and left the safety of the Shire. It was his decision and he stood by it, even now when he was broken and battered.

 

Upon hearing his name being called from the doorway, he glanced up and took in the sight of the man before him. It was unnerving just how realistic he was this time around. Most nights there was a soft glow about him, his face and hair free of any dirt or grime. He wasn’t necessarily dirty now, but he looked as if he had been travelling. It was an odd detail for his mind to create, but he supposed he was remembering him as he was before they had reached Erebor, before the riches within the mountain drove him mad. His voice was different as well, pained and desperate, drastically different from his usual soft, soothing tone. Deciding against his initial idea of ignoring the man until he went away, he watched him as he advanced and kneeled before him. Something about this felt different than most nights, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps this was just the next stage of his descent into madness. As strong hands gripped his lower thighs, his breath caught in his throat and he tensed. Damn, that felt so real. He was truly going insane. If it meant getting to spend the remainder of his days with this Thorin and not the dream-like one that had been plaguing him, he would gladly allow the madness to take him.

 

Reaching out, his fingers brushed a silver painted lock from the man’s face, carefully tucking it back with the remainder of his long hair. A faint smile graced his lips, amazed that his mind was able to come up with such a perfect replica of the man. His free hand shifted to the man’s arm, fingers gently drifting along his skin, committing the feeling to memory. He might not get another chance like this, to see the man so clearly it was almost as if he was truly there. He didn’t want to forget, couldn’t bare the thought of the day when his memory finally faded until he couldn’t even remember the color of those icy hues. His whispered words rung within his ears, causing a soft sigh to escape the hobbit. His heart ached for it to be true, for the other to actually be there before him. He would trade anything to have the dwarf back, would give up every single item within his possession if it meant he could see the man again, even if it was only for one day. “You have done nothing, my love. This is my nightmare. You rest in peace, while I spend every day wishing I could join you.” He confessed softly, gently patting the man’s hand upon his thigh before he leaned back within his chair and returned his attention to his book.

 

That proved useless however, as the hands on his legs drifted up to his hips, warm fingers gripping the skin beneath his shirt. The organ within his chest that he thought to be dead skipped a beat, causing his breathing to become uneven. This was almost too much. And then, suddenly, his blanket was gone, tossed aside by the other in a manner that startled the hobbit. Never before had the dwarf been able to move anything. Thorin had spoken to him, had laid with him in bed and held him on his worst nights, but during all of his episodes, the other had never been able to manipulate anything. Had he done that himself and just not realized it, had perceived it as the other moving the blanket? Surely he would have been able to tell the difference. Pulling his gaze from the object as hands cupped his face, his brows furrowed in confusion, staring intently at the man before him, a ghost who whispered words he had never heard. Never once had Thorin denied being a nightmare, an illusion created by his grieving heart. Was… was this truly him? Could it possibly be? He quickly shoved those thoughts away, knowing that he would be unable to bare it if he turned out to be a clever trick.

 

A quiet gasp escaped him as his book was yanked from his hands and tossed away, knowing for a fact that he had not tossed the object. His heart began to pound wildly, internally fighting with the possibility that this truly was the man he loved. Navy hues were glued to the man as he struggled to remove his coat, the hobbit’s body tense and stiff as he tugged his hand forward. Exhausted limbs began to tremble as his fingertips connected with the uneven flesh beneath his shirt where the deadly scar was located. No. It wasn’t possible. Thorin was dead. Yanking his hand back, he stared at the dwarf with wide, disbelieving hues, shaking his head at his words. No, no, no. This was a trick. A terrible, atrocious lie created by his exhausted mind. It had been days since he had any proper sleep and surely this was the result. “S-stop it.” His voice cracked and shook, revealing just how unsettled he was be this. “It can’t be true. I was with you when… I held you as you… You are dead!” He protested, shaking his head frantically, trying not to hope, trying not to allow this to let him believe. If he believed and it turned out to be a lie… He knew how much more it would break him, knew how he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

 

Suddenly, warm, familiar lips crashed upon his, forcing a broken sob to sound within his throat, fingers curling into the fabric of the man before him. Whether it was to push him away or pull him closer, he would never know. Instead, he remained in frozen shock, unable to deny just how very real his kisses felt.

 

This was… He was…

 

 _How?_ How could this possibly be true?

 

It wasn’t. It _wasn’t_.

 

But it _was_.

 

He did not protest as the other shifted them, moved him so he was nestled within his grasp, wrapped up within an embrace he had thought he would never feel again. His tongue tentatively darted out to drag across kiss-bruised lips as hands combed through his hair and lips pressed against his neck, the dwarf’s breath hot against his skin. Tears welled within his eyes as the other spoke, knowing that this was indeed real, without a doubt. In all of the days since the man’s death, the illusion of Thorin had never been able to utter those three simple words. Any time it was said, it was uttered the exact way it had been that day atop the frozen waterfall. Cut off and incomplete, never what he wanted, needed to hear. Until now. Trembling hands reached out to gently touch the man’s cheek as he pulled back to look at him, amazement and disbelief on his exhausted features. The grip upon his hips was painful, but he didn’t complain. It helped, showed him that this was actually happening, that he wasn’t imagining this. It didn’t make sense for him to imagine such a thing. He had been trying to accept the man’s supposed death. His mind hadn’t allowed the possibility that the other might yet live.

 

This was real.

 

Tears fell unchecked down his cheeks, lips parting as if to speak, but no words leaving him. His mind had stopped, unable to form any coherent thought. Thorin was alive and well, holding him and clutching him to him with a need that rivaled his own. Reaching out, he grabbed the man’s face and yanked him forward, pressing his lips to the other’s with a frantic, desperate need. “Thorin…” He whispered against his lips, his voice trembling just as badly as his body. “ _How_?” He asked, needing answers. “You died. You… I was with you when... “ He trailed off, still unable to say it, even after all these months. “What happened? Why didn’t you… I needed you. You left me. Why now? Why not sooner? _Why_?” His words were frazzled and uneven. He was still broken, still in shock from this new discovery.

 

“Why, Thorin?” Fingers carded through the man’s peppered locks, hands never ceasing as he tried to recommit every inch of him to memory, refreshing details that he hadn’t realized had begun to fade.

  
♦


	10. It's You, It's You, It's All For You ♦

* * *

 

 **T** he choir sang loudly within the dim room, guiding two souls to merge into one. By the Makers above, he fought him, pried, pushed, trying to wriggle from him, only to submit to the light washing the darkness away. There was a tangible connection drifting through both of their life forces, tying the unbreakable bond, forcing this moment to burn brightly within their legend for days to come. It was as if the air finally filled his lungs, his heart jolting back to life, his purpose having more meaning than it did during the long road back to this place, to where he truly belonged. He just wanted to be held within this second, for he was small, and longed for his soft touch to warm him up, breathe him in. There were too many nights in the cold that he had lost himself, contemplated marching back to the misty, lonely mountain, but he pushed down the long path to embrace this notion that he would have the one constant in his life -- Bilbo.

 

An unstoppable force poured from his eyes, shedding his own bits of joy that his lover finally saw him with different eyes than those before; Thorin’s mouth trembled, breathing erratic, but he knew this chaos swarming around them was just the rocky storm that would pass and bring better days. If time would have him sink below the surface, pull him from the murky depths, the dwarf would do it time and time again.

 

“You ask questions I don’t have answers for,” fluttering lips wouldn’t cease uncontrollable shivers, and it seemed his whole vessel succumbed to the same effects. He would cleanse his face with trembling hands, moving the tears from his sweet face, making room for the next wave. Thorin crossed the world for him, and he had no reason to remain where so much death had swarmed. He couldn’t stay the same, not after that day he fell into the fade, not even the day he arose from his own pool of death. He only asked for a sign and the light to guide his hardened path through Hell and to stumble upon Heaven’s gates. Only the accused would stand ready for justice, and if it were to be him, he would do it over and over again to just have this halfling in his arms. It was always for him, every last bit of it, was for all for Bilbo. Yet why was he doing this to him? Thorin felt the sting of his eyes, staring toward the ceiling, slipping closed, caving. His big arms held him strongly, slipping upon his spine and cradled him as his head nestled into his collarbone; his shoulders quivered to the uncontrollable burst of adoration flowing freely. It was better than he ever knew and the only world worth living in was the one of him loving Bilbo.

 

Heaven was a place on earth with him, and it hadn’t been more true.

 

_Fingers clasped the wound that busted at the seams, stumbling until his body hadn’t had the strength to stand. A hand tried to grip hard on the stick that aided his journey, but that too gave way, sending Thorin Oakenshield upon his knees. Droplets sprayed upon his broken body, blood pooling down from the reopened wound; had this been cut short? Had he been ushered to cease this fruitless endeavor. He struggled, mud caking what touched the ground as he crawled from the road and to the brush, leaning his back against the tree. Breathing rapid, jaw pressing hard on the ivory while trying to get a grip. He hadn’t wanted to look, frustrated at his stubbornness to push ahead when his body screamed for him to stop. How many times would he have to re-close this wound? How many times did this have to happen until he learned his lesson? He torn the waste away, exposing the pus covered hole in his side that spat red and green specks. The fever nearly did him in, but now, he truly feared this would do him in. Should he stumble back? Try and make it back to the kin to his east when all he wanted to do was make it to the one in the west?_

_Grunts came from his lips, fingers working to rip the bindings open. He squeezed either side, watching as rolling gunk escaped the sore; the bile nearly launched from his lips, but he swallowed hard. He needed to move, needed to get this handled; but as he tried to rise, he fell and fell again._

_A whinny? His mare that bucked him with the lightning? Had she returned? Eyes darted desperately, mouth left gapping as she trotted to and fro, frantic with the heavy storm. A whistle, pathetic as it were, roared through the storm, alerting the pony where it’s master had been. He crawled to expose himself, ushering her over. “Here,” he waved, until she obliged to his demands. Her flanks shivered, each muscle shuddered in anticipation of the next cry from the heavens. He managed to slide onto her back, kicking her sides to get her moving._

_The light within the storm had been welcomed; the wound hadn’t stopped weeping, making his head fuzzy with wild anxieties. Jerking her head, she stopped, and he didn’t care if she had run off again, just needed to make it to the cozy home nestled in the hill. Fists slammed against the door, desperate as he shouted. The door opened, and the short woman gasped at the sight. “I require aid…” he mumbled, pain attached to his voice. Until it all went dark._

_“Ah, you’re awake,” she cooed, taking the damp cloth from his head to rinse it, replacing it. “I thought I almost lost you. That wound, it--”_

_“I know,” he argued, eyes half mast, but intent on following her as she tended to him._

_“I removed what sick I could while you, well, had slipped from this world. If you hadn’t spoke in your sleep, I would have pegg you for dead and tossed you to the crows,” she let a small smile express upon her lips, reaching to touch the side of his grizzled face. “I sealed your wound shut. You may remain until you’ve regained your strength, Ser Dwarf.” His fingers moved, reaching to touch the sore skin. She hadn’t lied, it was surely closed, and upon closer inspection, as he rolled the sheets from his hide, by a hot blade it had been silenced. He threw them back over himself, watching as she came close, setting a bowl and a mug on the stand beside him. “For someone to travel with such a grave wound, must be for a rather important someone.”_

_Surprised, his brows rose; he wouldn’t answer, just watched as she smiled again and retreated. Before her body left the doorway, he called to her. “Thank you.” And with that, she just nodded._

 

“I traveled,” he spoke into his skin, trying to hide his own pathetic sobbing with kisses back upon his neck and a grip upon his back, “As soon as I was able to move my legs. I would not rest until I was bathed in your light.” Bilbo had known the long journey home with a broken heart, but he hadn’t known Thorin’s own pledge to mend it, at whatever cost. The scar upon his side was a marker and trophy of that adventure; each staggered step, each time he fell, each time he faltered was all for this great journey. Curse the mountain and the gold, curse the dragon that fell from the skies, the elves in the wood, or the men in the lake town. This was the greatest bounty that all the gold in his helm couldn’t afford.

 

If he could pay to take his pain away and the moment upon the waterfall, he would at the drop of the hat. Would a limb suffice? Would the destruction of his home? He would give it all away for the hobbit to heal and unsee the passing. If he hadn’t woken that day and remained in his slumber, he surely would have slipped into eternity next to his nephews upon the pyre. There had to be some divine reason he had been allowed to return. He wouldn’t waste it. The coarseness of his face grazed upon his thief’s, finding his eyes back within his grace. Another swipe of his thumb had lead another stray tear from staining his face and silence his fumbling lips. He knew what they both witnessed, knew what had happened, but it all meant nothing now -- Thorin was not a ghost, but palpable. He would sink back within his lips, holding his jawline to further his desire.

 

They tumbled, laying the hobbit upon his back as he towered over his tiny built. Lip locked, tongue tied, he savored and let the gravity of this second chance hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Thorin nestled a strong arm beside him, lowering and melting into him. Only the flames would  disclose how beautiful those sky blues were, dipping to the bottom of his partner’s deep blues. It wouldn’t be hidden away, the soiled face that bore so much affection and longing, how the stains glistened with the fire’s light. Strands fell over broad shoulders; it curtained the lovers’ faces, combatant in the heat of their kisses. He deepened, letting his stare fall to close. His thumb circled his side, unable to not keep his hands off of him, witnessing this unreal experience. Thorin almost never saw this amazing creature again, almost lost him and himself forever. Battered lips deserved a few pecks, trying to heal the damage he was causing.

 

“I gave all the gold and traded it for a merrier world, and it seems the Gods have answered,” he moved the curled amber hues away, tucking them behind his elongated lobe. “A life isn’t worth living if it is one without you by my side, as you have always been. I have lost myself and you’ve brought me back from the brink. I parted with you upon friendship, to see you well in my final moments -- a-and,” he was hating how his walls tumbled down, eyes dewing, “to wake without you was the worst dream. I would cross the world time and time again.”

  
♦


	11. Love and Sympathy ♦

 

* * *

 

 

 **B** ilbo couldn’t get enough. His fingers ran through the others locks, occasionally tracing the outer shell of his ear as he explored once familiar features. His touch was soft and fleeting, unable to settle on one specific feature. From his ear, he shifted down the line of his jaw, then up along his cheek. Hands that continued to tremble, though much less than they had been previously, traced along the length of the man’s elegant nose before his thumb finally brushed across Thorin’s bottom lip, a ragged breath escaping his own. He was here, alive and well, sitting right in front of him. It was impossible, utterly incomprehensible. His hands dropped to the man’s shoulders where they rested, fingers brushing the exposed skin where his neck and shoulder joined. He had never been a religious man, didn’t know whether to believe there was any kind of higher being above, but in those moments, he sent silent, fervent thanks to the heavens for bringing this man back to him. With little difficulty, he shifted closer within his grasp, craving the warmth he had been denied for months. It was such a strange sensation, to have the dwarf back, to know that he would wake up tomorrow and the king would still be there, no longer a figment of his imagination.

 

Dropping his face to bury within the crook of the others neck, a soft whimper escaped abused lips as he drank in his painfully familiar scent. A panic gripped his heart when he realized he had nearly forgotten the smell of the other, had been unable to recall all of the elements that made up his unique aroma. What would he have done if the other had not returned? If he had faded completely from memory? The thought of what could have happened had him tightening his grip on the man, refusing to let go. Was his memory truly so poor that he had already begun to forget the man he loved? It frightened him more than he was willing to admit.

 

Pulling back at the sound of the man’s voice, he tucked several loose strands of hair behind the man’s rounded ear, wishing he had answers or at least some kind of explanation. Thorin had been dead. Bilbo wouldn’t have left if there had been any sign or possibility that he had lived. It must have been some cruel twist of fate to have the other wake only after he had left his side and had begun to mourn his death. “I have you now.” He murmured softly, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss to the man’s forehead. “That is all that matters. You are here, you are safe, and you are mine.”

With tears to rival his own, his arms tucked against the others broad chest, nestling down against him, burying his face wherever there was the most skin, letting the other’s presence overwhelm, consuming him from the outside in. He would get lost in this man, would drown in his affections and would not care to ever be free of him. His exhausted body and soul relaxed against the other, dark blues closing as his ear pressed against his chest, listening to the pounding of a strong heart. It was a sound he had resigned himself to never hearing again. Now that he had Thorin back, he would press his ear to the man’s chest at any opportunity that arose.

 

Wrapped within the warm embrace of his lover, a feeling of peace finally settled over him. His mind was calm and collected, focused solely on the man before him. He had not experienced such a thing since well before the man’s death. It was a euphoric sensation, causing his body to hum with a pleasant energy that had been missing for months. With time, the hobbit knew he would be able to readjust to normalcy, would be able to create a life within the Shire with Thorin. He wouldn’t even mind settling elsewhere if it was what the other desired. So long as he had the king at his side, he could endure anything thrown his way. He knew what it was like to live without the light in his life, the one person who had become so important to him that it blocked out anything else. Hopefully it was an experience that he would not have to endure again for a very, very long time, when he was old and grey, nearing the end of his life.

 

Pulled from his thoughts by the man’s voice, he lifted his head just enough to show the man that he was listening. His breathing hitched as lips pressed against his neck, causing a heat to rise to his cheeks, his fingers drifting across the man’s clothed torso, over the deadly scar, reminding himself of what he had thought he had lost forever. “You should have rested and healed.” He murmured softly, though he was not protesting in the slightest. Bilbo hadn’t been going anywhere. If Thorin had took the time to heal before he had travelled, it might have been a bit harder to convince him that he was real, but the result would have been the same in the end. He would have been reunited with the only man who had ever held his heart.

 

A soft sound of surprise fell from parted lips as they were suddenly falling backwards, the hobbit’s back hitting the carpeted ground with a soft thump. Lips dominated his own, taking command of their situation and guiding the eager hobbit throughout. His hands slipped beneath the dwarf’s shirt, fingers carefully avoiding the newest scar upon the flesh of his abdomen. He wasn’t quite ready to feel that again. Instead he let his hands roam over familiar skin, fingers slipping along his sides to graze down his back, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, the larger man encompassing all of him. His heart pounded within its cage in a way it had not in countless months. Every touch burned in the best possible way, lighting a fire within him that he had believe had died the day the dwarf had. When they finally broke apart, Bilbo placed a hand against the man’s chest, fingers splayed wide as he felt the rhythmic thumping beneath his ribs. He felt the need to check periodically, to remind himself that this was real and not just another one of his waking dreams.

 

His gaze was fixated on the man above him as he spoke, a soft expression on his features. He leaned into the man’s touch as he tucked some stray locks behind his ear, basking in even the simplest of contact. His heart ached at his words, knowing that he felt the same. Had it not been for the fact that he knew Thorin would have greatly disapproved, he would have gladly joined the man in the afterlife. He was thankful not that he had not reached that point, though it had crossed his mind on several occasions, normally on his worst nights. Guilt gripped his heart as the other fell silent, knowing what it felt like to wake without the other at his side. His hands left the other’s chest to instead cup his face and gently guide him down into a soft, sweet kiss, unlike the ones that had been shared earlier. When he pulled back, he nudged his nose against the others, his thumb gliding easily against his skin. “I love you, Thorin Oakenshield.” He said softly, his voice quiet, but sure. “I know the agony of waking without the man I love at my side and if you would allow it, I would ask to remain next to you for the rest of my days. Stay here with me.”

 

Letting his head fall back onto the floor, he gaze up at the man, taking in every contour of his face. “Don’t leave me again. Please.” His voice revealed the pain within, giving a glimpse at just how broken he was. It would take time, but with the help of the dwarf, he would begin to mend his shattered heart and soul.

 

♦

 

 


	12. Until The End of Time

** **

* * *

 

 

**T** here were no words to explain what constricted his chest -- only actions would suffice. He spoke of love and how he swayed, lost in the dark; both had finally came through and the dreams they suffered from we're not a beautiful reality. Overwhelmed by his confession to his flesh, Bilbo longed and sang the love he held onto. They were foolish to confess what they both knew were true, but as Thorin said as the long sleep took him, he was blind. Dragon fever taking his veins and destroyed the man he had been. Not even his kin would stand with him on that final day, launching over the ramparts to join in the fight. It prickled his skin, just the thought of it. He almost killed the hobbit, hung him by his neck, and threaten to throw him to the wolves -- that truly cracked the insanity, feeling himself slipping below the ocean of gold. Bilbo saw him for the good man he was; he couldn't ask for anything more.

 

He snapped to, at the clawing along the furred muscle. "I will do more than warm your bed," his lips arched his neck, stretching the little being as he ravaged and claimed his rights back. "I will stay until I am called back to the afterlife, and even then, I shall fight." His kingdom for a soul -- he'd pay that twice over if this meant he could live and die by his side. He only wished and prayed silently as he maneuver down to the nook, nestled just above his collarbone, that Bilbo wouldn't witness his passing again. Thorin would withstand his lover falling from his hands first, just to make sure he slipped away in happiness and love. All movement stopped at the mention of love. Not just open in the air, but to the point. He was firm, assured with himself that it was what he wanted, and all Thorin could do was reciprocate.

 

Small fingers held him, nestling adoringly; he kissed his eyes, heaving with a content sigh. "Words I wished I'd spoken sooner," he confessed, taking his hand from his face, lips touching thin digits. "My heart has been broken and beaten, but here, it is whole." Bilbo pleaded him not to leave him, and all Thorin could do was silence those lips, hide those harsh words; he would never leave him, not after all they've suffered. "Promise you'll remember that you're mine," he breathed. The heat from his kiss lingering. He took him again -- every ounce of passion focused upon their mouths. He combated against his tongue, only drawn to ensue his feelings upon him. There was no lust like it had been many nights, but filled with admiration and worship. He struggled to balance on his core, fighting to remove the linen shirt at his chest. He broke only to cast it aside with the blanket and book. Fingers played upon the exposed belly, leaning down to nibble, and caress his halfling, showing how terrible the storm within him had been.

Flesh so pliable, unlike the stone below his own; he was soft, warm, and inviting, as he always had been. This truly was why he had been drawn to him -- he was subtle and unlike any being he held relations. The way his hands gnarled over his flesh, the way it tugged when  he pulled him closer, the way his hand sank within his belly; Thorin was infatuated with the way they molded together, like they were the missing puzzle pieces and destined for one another. He wanted to melt within him and never return, stay there forever until his days had ended -- he would have been happier with that fate.

 

And how pick those fingers were to pluck the buttons open upon that silly vest he always word, arm bracing his back as he lifted him from the ground, removing it entirely. He would lie to himself if he hadn’t imagined this for many nights, just dreaming of what they could have or might have been. More so the way he cooed, the soft noises muffled, trying to hide relations from brothers in arms. He yearned for those soft tunes, just to fill his belly full of happiness, and melt away into the sun. He wanted him, needed him, and he always would until his time would cease to be. The fire of his kiss told him that passionate tale, balancing them both upon strong hips. There was no pretending anymore, no oceans between them, just the way he needed to feel him, touch every inch. Thorin’s mighty hand held his face close, keeping his kiss hot on his, warring with the resistance his tongue had put up. He didn’t want to break it, wanted to just drink him in until he became drunk off his essence. He scooted upon his rear feet struggling to break the boots from his hide. Low, the bellow emitted, until finally the pop of the left boot brought relief, and more when the right came off.

 

He wouldn’t stop and smell the roses. This home coming meant more to him than life itself and if it were to be romping before the roaring flame -- there would be no better way to celebrate it. He knew with each pass of his tongue, each muffled breath from his, tightened and wound him, actions becoming more firm, hard in nature. He fumbled like an adolescent at the tie at his hip, mucking it completely, before it had been pulled. He was above him like a wolf at the neck of the deer, pinning him to the ground without much resistance; even as he parted ways, finally letting his gaze hold his, there was no questioning his actions -- he reciprocated with every twist of Bilbo’s body and the way his face painted a few warmer shades across his cheeks. He could feel his earns burn as the blood rushed rapidly and kickstarted the motor under his chest, throbbing louder and louder with every move. He littered the room with more articles of clothing, tearing the breeches at his middle, leaving the hobbit stark naked as the day he had been born.

 

Thorin had been vertical, chest huffing wildly, admiring the beauty of the other man’s body below him. They were so different, yet so alike. He was soft like a woman, but held his masculinity well. His lips parted as another silent prayer had been casted, eyes rolling to the close, before looking up at the ceiling momentarily. Thorin still struggled with his own tie, not able to get them off of him quick enough to join him upon the ground. It was then and only then the puzzles met, hardened steel upon silkened skin, hips wrenching with the familiar motion. He kissed the small hairs upon his chest, back to the neck that he suckled, rolling his tongue across. This body was not foreign, hands knowing the right places to touch to stir a reaction from, dipping below his belt; he was kind, though hands rough as he gripped him within his hand, following the motions, witnessing his spine arch. He was losing all respectability within his presence, keeping his kiss locked away; this was the song he needed to hear, with each heavy pet, sliding his grip up the remainder of his, back down, feeling the jolt of ecstasy clambering from him. Thorin grinded, grunting lowly as he was losing touch with any shred of humanity and more primal instincts ensnaring his weary soul.

 

They were along the last great divide, and he wanted to stare into his lovers eyes, rolled with a heep of his sinful acts. Legs scooped both to the side, rolling his hips to offer him better reach. The longing only grew as his body ached, quivering as he drew to the close, finally guiding himself to the gates, penetrating his stronghold, and nearly losing his breath. The delight of his groan, how difficult the battle had been under he was enveloped in warmth. His hand slammed beside his head, skin immediately dewing with the sheen of war, panting to some beat of the war drums; curtains of onyx and glints of silver hung around them, icy licking with darkened navy. He prepared for another roll of his strong hips, kiss falling into his, muffling the husked, deep moan. “I love you,” he breathed into him.

 

♦

 

 


	13. Put Your Hands On My Waist, Do It Softly ♦

* * *

 

 

**T** he man’s promise rung in his ears, letting his head fall back to allow him better access to the sensitive skin of his neck. Navy vanished behind heavy lids, soft sounds of appreciation escaping as he pressed closer to the other’s warmth, craving everything he was offering. To have his companion returned to him when he believed him to be lost forever was more than he could ever ask for. Thorin could leave in the morning with no intention of ever returning and Bilbo would be at peace with it. So long as he knew the man was alive and well, even if he wasn’t at his side, it was enough for him. Though he would always prefer the man to remain with him, he did not control him and would never ask him to do anything he did not want. In turn, he suspected the dwarf would do the same. They fit well together and a large part of that was due to the fact that they held each other in such high regard.

 

Bilbo respected Thorin, even when he didn’t agree with his actions. In Erebor, when the dragon sickness clouded his lovers mind, he had stood by him despite his actions. It hadn’t been until things had gone too far that he had done something, and even then, even when he had nearly died by the man’s hands, he never abandoned him. He had no intention to ever do so, even when they were old and grey, with very few years left to live. Thorin had stolen his heart and refused to return it. He wouldn’t have it any other way, if he was being honest. He could get lost in this man, had done so on several occasions. The dwarf knew him better than he knew himself, often surprising him with his ability to pick up on subtle things that Bilbo himself didn’t even realize he was doing.

 

Any thoughts that had strayed immediately snapped back to his lover as soft words fell from his lips, breath ghosting over his fingertips. “I never needed you to say it. I knew then, just as I know now.” He murmured gently before his mouth was silenced, devoured by lips that fit perfectly against his own. Familiar tongues danced, melding and falling into an easy rhythm. This was natural, as second nature as breathing. With Thorin, things between them had always been comfortable. In the beginning, it had been exciting and nerve wracking, but had felt right.

 

“Always.” He murmured softly, knowing that he would never cease to be Thorin’s. Even when he had believed him dead and gone, he had known that no one would ever hold his heart the way the dwarf did. Melting into the kiss was a solidification of that promise, knowing he would never forget it.

 

As clothes began to fall away, Bilbo leaned back, allowing the man to do as he pleased. Any other time he would have gladly helped with the removal of the troublesome fabrics, but right then he was enjoying the show, watching the way the man’s body shifted and muscles rolled as he tossed away his shirt, discarding the item and quickly forgetting it. In the back of his mind, he noted that his body was going to be painfully sore in the morning. A fact that had nothing to do with their intended activities. The floor was hard, despite the warm carpet they rested upon. Participating in such actions without a proper bed beneath them was going to have the hobbit complaining come sunrise.

 

As the man began to unbutton his vest, he felt his heart pick up pace, eager and ready for what was about to happen. Using his own hands, he pushed himself up in assistance as Thorin lifted him to remove the troublesome fabric. When he was once again dominated by strong lips, a hand rose to tangle in locks of ebony, keeping his companion close as he refused to just give in. Thorin would have to earn his prize, the way he always did. Bilbo was a stubborn hobbit and despite his role in their partnership, he was never one to give in without a fight.

The brunette leaned back with ease, allowing the man to fumble with the tie of his trousers. Had he not been so focused on their movements, he would have laughed at the man’s inability to untie the simple knot. Instead, he shifted impatiently, hips unintentionally rising into the man’s touch, craving everything he had to offer. That didn’t last long however, a soft grunt escaping him as he was suddenly pinned before the hearth. Darkened hues held the man before him, body trembling with anticipation. It was only then that his cheeks colored, flattered and modest under the others scrutiny. There was no embarrassment in his blush, simply an uncharacteristic shyness after having been absent from the others gaze for so long. Nothing he saw before him was new, and yet it felt as if he was discovering the dwarf for the very first time. It truly had been far too long since their last encounter.

 

Before any other thoughts could form, his love was free of his last article of clothing and sinking against him in a way that had the hobbit keening and cooing for more. The smaller body pressed up into the larger, cheeks flushing darker as skin slid together, creating a friction he hadn’t realized he had needed until that moment. Head tilted to the side to allow a demanding mouth free reign of his neck, soft pants and breathes escaped bruised lips.

 

Suddenly, navy hues snapped open and his body arched sharply into the body above him, a loud curse escaping him as skilled fingers attended to a sorely neglected appendage. Slender fingers curled around a strong bicep, holding on for dear life as pleasure flooded his senses. It felt electric, so perfect that it was nearly painful. Had his mind been able to function properly, he would have gladly returned the favor, but he was unable to do so, helpless to the man’s expert ministrations. Soft, breathless sounds of pleasure and appreciation fell unbidden from his lips, hips rolling and squirming for more as the pressure built within him.

 

Hands gripped at the man above him, his body arching and shifting with each roll of his hips. His gaze never left the other, unable to will himself to look away. If he shifted his gaze, even for a second, he was afraid that the other would disappear. Even if this was a dream, he wouldn't want to wake up. To have one more experience, one last time together with the man he loved more than anything else. It was a gift he had never expected to experience. A gasp escaped the hobbit when he was suddenly full, the larger man filling him to the brink, to the point where he felt like he was going to break. The sensation was familiar, but entirely new and exciting. He thought he had lost this, not this physical aspect, but the connection. The bond that joined them at the soul. Hobbit and dwarf. Two entirely different people from drastically unfamiliar cultures. A man he had lost, only to be found again.

 

The man started in surprise as a large hand slammed beside his head, confusion washing over him for only a moment before a faint smile graced his lips. His own uneven breathing mixed with the king's, thoughts quickly melted away as hips rocked into him. A breathless moan escaped him, his own body responding by pushing back, craving more. As lips devoured his own, he responded in kind. Fingers curled within silken locks, holding the man close. The moan that escaped the larger of the two had a delighted shiver running down his spine, committing the sound to memory.

  
The words that sounded from the man's lips caused him to still, however. He was not used to hearing the words from the man, even though he had known them to be true for quite some time. With a surge of uncharacteristic strength, he pushed up, one arm slipping around the man's neck and clutching him close as he was settled within his lap. "And I love you." He murmured, pressing a kiss to the others abused lips. Using his newly gained leverage, he lifted his hips, teetering on the edge before sinking back down with an appreciative groan. His head fell back as he repeated the action, small gasps and moans tumbling from parted lips. Nails dug into scarred flesh, holding onto the larger body as heat coiled within the pit of his stomach. “Thorin…” He breathed in a soft whimper, clutching the man to him, urging the other to move with a sharp roll of his hips.

 

 

♦


	14. No One's Going To Take My Soul Away ♦

* * *

 

  **P** roper actions lead to accurate responses, lips parting with a subtle gasp at the reciprocation of grinding hips; if Bilbo chose any proper moment to force the air from his breast, by the Gods his calculations were correct to chose this moment in time. Thorin was left bewildered and having to taken a few silent minutes to reassess the damage done. The hobbit wriggled below his girth, hands unable to be still as they reach, grasped, pulled -- and once his senses came to, though on fire and blinding, he could only accommodate the requests. This was no action of violent, no action of lust, no action of ill will, but actions of deep seeded devotion only the heavens above had witnessed, raining blessings down upon the two common folk, guiding two kindred souls back. If this was truly heaven, Thorin prayed for this moment to replay each and every night; he only wanted his heart to be healed and whole, and this was the start of all of that. The mere action of fornication wasn’t what he craved, but the sight and sounds coming delicately through parted lips that beckoned and claim his attentions. Each subtle movement, each growl between pants, every time the warring figures collided upon grinding bones -- that was what Thorin wanted.

The twisting and gyration, deeper and firmer, skin set ablaze and sensations roaring loudly -- it was all becoming too enthralling to the point he was beginning to lose touch with everything around him other than him. Bilbo had been the only thing in this blurred, chaotic world to call him back from the pits of hell, send him upon his ascent through madness, and into the light. Upon the golden floors of Erebor he saw himself as the mighty dragon, losing all sensibility and touch with those he had scorn, and unfortunately it had been those closer to him than he knew. As the floors swallowed him, it had been his name upon the wind, calling and waiting, reaching, and there from the bottom Thorin had seen his glimmering face reaching for him. And with another collision and memories fading from his mind, his hand reach to touch his face, just balancing upon the core, tending to his lover’s needs and his own. The calloused digits torn at the side of his face during the passionate affair, focusing his stare upon the bliss he inspired in the halfling. Bilbo continued to silently pray, muffling syllables of his name as he thrusted with determination.

Through his blindness, as the hobbit toppled upon his lap and took control, he nearly lost the battle. Thick hands released him from his grip and roughly pryed upon the taunting hips, keeping them still as he regrouped. He couldn’t help the low rumbles that praised his efforts, arching his brows as heaves of a mighty chest tried to calm the angry member. He cooed for his actions to cease momentarily, feasting upon the collarbone. All his focus had been pinpointed to the lover’s needs, hands caressing hardened skin; he lifted the pair, planting himself upon the ground, back against the chair he pulled the halfling from. Hips moved instinctually as he settled an arm to lay across the small seat, letting it hang; he rolled his fingers together to pull his focus to them and to his masterful work to guide his little lover into his own bliss, but as Bilbo nearly evicted himself from his safety, throwing his weight sharply down upon himself, Thorin found his free hand upon his hip and briefly throwing his wild mane back. “Bilbo..” he took a few gulps of air, eyes locking as he watched his sultry motions, savoring his partner’s turn at control -- he would relinquish all rights to him each and every time if this is what he would receive.

Each sharp grind had allowed him to backlash upon his throbbing sex, ensuring the hobbit’s movements only matched his own as he stroked him into the promised lands. The hand that lingered on his waist only tightened as he felt the knot grow, boiling with a fiery revenge. Control he no longer had, Thorin stripped him of all rights, moving to prop himself upon his knees to get a better position. He balanced the hobbit within his lap, keeping his eyes upon him as his movements were methodical, but fierce with a purpose of their own. He took him as he would lose him any moment, hearing the pitch change in his throat through his ever increasing momentum; he couldn’t stand it. He would look his lover in the eyes as he concluded this act, not before throwing that spine against the floor. Legs hand been tossed over one side of his shoulder, clambering to pull that body close to fill him completely with himself.

Thorin let loose hell upon his fragile frame, pumping harder and rapid, all at the same time not forgetting his hobbit lover. With mighty moans and snarls, his hips slowed just as his release was imminent, mouth gasping; he throbbed within him, body quivering uncontrollably. He stayed where he had been until the other found his own satisfaction, leisurely milking himself until dry, but refusing to leave his body just yet. His mouth found it’s place and continued to abuse and batter those lips that longed just for another taste. He was drunk off of him, his head spinning and body light.

Leaving his warmth was far worse than he anticipated, just wishing to remain and crawl within him, but lest he forgot his lover had lain before him inviting him for more of his touch. Thorin moved the hobbit away from the scandal upon his beloved carpet (which he would have to chuckle about later, but now was not of humor, but of longing for a love untouched for what seemed liked ages) and closer to the flames. The glisten of his skin drove him mad and those lips hadn’t been strangers to his dew covered flesh, leaving his paled flesh pink under each grasp of his lips. He eased his legs slowly upon the ground, mindful of their tremors, as well as the burning in his own ripe thighs; Thorin nestled next to him, enveloping him with his warmth, pulling him closer to his chest and kissing his crown. A hum of satisfaction lifted from his throat while idle fingers sifted through locks of amber. If his heart were to cease beating, he asked it be at this moment with his lover in his arms and the crackling flames as his back. “I won’t leave you,” he recollected his words of promise, hazed tints of cerulean searching deep within him.

“I’ll stay until we are old and grey and the sun swallows us whole. I am home.”

 

♦


End file.
